


Viva Las Vegas

by Moonheart13



Series: Alternate Universes [5]
Category: South Park
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, OC NPC characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 03:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonheart13/pseuds/Moonheart13
Summary: In which Gregory and Christophe go on a journey to figure out just what the hell happened last night.





	Viva Las Vegas

The first sight that greeted Christophe was an annoying glint of light. He shut his eyes immediately, groaning into his pillow. His head was pounding murderously, as if someone had stabbed it with a telephone pole and didn’t bother to remove said telephone pole.

“Are you awake?”

The voice felt like a thousand knives slamming into each of his ears. More than that, though, his body grew rigid in confusion. Ignoring the pain as best he could, he sat up in bed, turning to face his intruder with his fists raised, though his arms trembled from exhaustion.

Luckily, it was only Gregory. The blond was seated beside him, a button up collar shirt on his person (though it was unbuttoned) as well as a worn expression. He appeared to have been up a while, the much more alert of the two of them.

“Fucking shit, you scared me,” Christophe hissed before moving to cradle the sides of his poor head.

“You needed to wake up at some point,” Gregory replied with a shrug.

Christophe only groaned again, lowering his head back down on the pillow.

“Christophe, you can’t go back to sleep.”

A green eye opened back up to glare at the blond. “Non.”

“We have an issue, Christophe. A very pressing matter.”

The eye shut. “Unless there’s a murderer in this room, ready to kill us, I highly doubt it’s that pressing. Now let me sleep.”

The bed shifted, followed by the sound of soft footsteps. Wait…soft?

Christophe’s eyes opened again. His bedroom had hardwood floors that creaked obnoxiously. Were they at Gregory’s house?

Wait. What even happened last night?

Christophe sat up, much more careful this time. His eyes scanned the wall at the headboard of the bed. It was a faint orange hue. Maybe even salmon, but Christophe didn’t know colors that well. All he knew was he didn’t recognize it.

He turned around, taking in the room. Dresser drawers stood nearby, along with a bathroom parallel to the side of the bed. Piecing together the small, yet open space, he concluded they were in a hotel room. From the other side, which looked to be a very tiny kitchen, Gregory was using the sink. The pouring water resembled the sound of nails on a chalkboard to Christophe’s poor ears.

The man let out a soft cry of pain, shutting his eyes again. He tried not to drink heavily anymore. He’d even gone to AA meetings to stop his problem. He’d thought he’d been doing a good job these last few months. So why would he even bother to drink?

He heard Gregory’s footsteps move back to him and a hand firmly grasped his bicep.

“Christophe,” Gregory’s said, his voice gentler this time, “Here. Have a little vodka. Then, I want you to drink some water and take some medication, okay? We have some leftover hot dogs from last night that I’m going to heat up in the microwave. You need to eat.”

Christophe let out a soft moan, almost like a whine.

“Come on, Chrissy,” Gregory said, his hand moving to brush through Christophe’s hair.

Christophe’s eyes opened, seeing the cup in front of him. With a shaky hand, he took it and drank. “Greg, what happ—?”

“Medication first.” Gregory took the cup from him, handing him two small pills and then a glass of water from the nightstand.

Reluctantly, Christophe forced them down, making a hard noise in his throat. After taking the glass back from him, Gregory got to work on reheating the hot dogs.

“Why the fuck did we get hot dogs?” Christophe mumbled, shutting his eyes.

“I don’t really remember,” Gregory replied. “My mind is very fuzzy after last night. I’ve spent the last hour getting rid of my own hangover.”

“You drank?”

Gregory wasn’t prudish about alcohol. He liked to have a glass here or there, especially at get togethers. However, he was always careful about his intake, knowing the dangers that came with irresponsible drinking.

It was because of Gregory that Christophe had even considered AA.

“I must have,” Gregory replied with a sigh.

A few moments later, the blond was back in front of him, encouraging him to eat. Slowly, Christophe bit into the hot dog, piece by piece. He seemed to be hungrier than he’d originally thought.

“Do you remember why we’re here?” Gregory asked him.

Half-finished with his make-shift breakfast, Christophe tried to turn the gears in his brain. “Vegas…we drove down here…” He rubbed at his forehead. “Fuck. I can’t remember why.”

“The job,” Gregory supplied. “The casino owner? Laundering money?”

He recalled the memory. “He was guilty. Very guilty.”

Gregory nodded. “After we completed our mission, we decided to celebrate.”

“You let me drink alcohol?” Christophe asked.

Now the blond shook his head. “No. I specifically ordered you some tea and myself only one glass of white zinfandel. We were planning to get food, come back here, and keep watching _Breaking Bad_.”

“Sounds like a good plan. Why didn’t we keep it?”

“I don’t know,” Gregory admitted. “I remember getting so…wasted. My best guess is we were drugged.”

“The casino owner?”

“One of his associate’s must have decided upon revenge.”

Christophe sighed through his nose. “Well, at least we’re okay. I don’t _feel_ like I’m missing any organs.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Gregory said, biting into his lower lip. “Physically, we seem fine, yes, but…”

“But…?” Christophe asked.

Without a word, Gregory reached over to his nightstand, handing Christophe a few pieces of paper.

Curiously, Christophe looked at them, his eyes traveling over the papers. Then, his grip became loose.

“…this is joke.” He glanced up at Gregory. “This is bullshit.”

“I assure you, Christophe, my own head hurts far too much to even entertain the thought of joking right now.”

“How…why would we even—”

“I don’t know,” Gregory said, rubbing his hands against his forehead. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…” he mumbled.

“Someone planted this here,” Christophe declared. “Perhaps this is only a distraction. Something greater is at work.”

“And they planted these, too?”

Christophe only now noticed the golden band on Gregory’s finger. Upon inspection of his own left hand, he had one as well.

Wedding rings.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do?” Christophe cried out, ignoring the thrum of pain in his head at his own shouting.

“Well…” Gregory replied, taking another sip of water. “We’ll need to get ourselves dressed, find the place that this apparently happened at, and get it annulled.”

“I can’t fucking believe this,” the Frenchman hissed, rubbing at his forehead. “Why in the fuck would we even do something like this? I mean, jumping into traffic, that’s something a wasted person does, but getting married?!”

Gregory shrugged again. “I wish I knew, my friend. Trust me, I’ve gone through ever possible scenario in the last hour and I have nothing.” He gestured at the papers. “And those are our signatures. They look too much like our own to be forged that good.”

“Isn’t there a rule against totally wasted people not being allowed to get married? Especially in fucking Vegas?”

“I don’t know,” Gregory sighed. “We’ll have to ask them. And maybe the casino owner set us up and this is all just a ruse.”

“Why the hell are you so calm about this?” Christophe snapped, standing up suddenly and groaning at the violent headrush.

“I’m trying my best to remain calm,” Gregory said, his teeth beginning to grit together, “Because panicking isn’t going to help the situation.”

“We are fucking _married_ , Fields!” Christophe waved the papers in the blond man’s face. “Married, like until death do us part bullshit!”

Gregory saw fit to send him a steely-eyed glare. “Christophe,” he said softly, yet with an edge to his voice, “Sit down. You look like you’re having a fit.”

“I _am_ having a fit!” Christophe growled back, tossing the papers into the air.

The papers fell around them like confetti, eventually scattered around their feet.

Gregory’s jaw clicked and he rubbed at his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I’m going to get dressed,” he spoke curtly, standing up and walking into the adjoined bathroom.

After slamming the door shut, Christophe stood in the now empty room. With a ragged sigh, he bent down, cleaning up the papers. He put them in a semi-neat pile on the table before locating his luggage, haphazardly shoved into a corner of the room. He pulled out a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt with a street art style picture of the French flag on it.

He could hear the shower running in the bathroom and briefly considered waiting to get dressed so he could take one after. Contrary to popular belief, the Mole took regular showers. Mostly.

After a momentary debate, he shook his head, tugging the shirt onto his bare-chest. Once his jeans were on and he had begun to tug his socks on, the shower shut off. A couple minutes later, Gregory stepped out, wearing a hotel-issued robe.

“I don’t recall leaving the area last night,” Gregory said, rummaging through his own luggage. “So, I don’t think we need to drive anywhere.”

“That will make the search shorter,” Christophe agreed.

Gregory tugged out a pair of pants and a collared shirt, while Christophe turned around to give him privacy, checking for his wallet and phone.

“You know, whomever did this to us, could have done something much worse,” Gregory said. “We could have sold our homes away, could have been abducted, or could have done something embarrassing on live television.”

The corners of Christophe’s lips quirked up in a smirk. “Could have gotten ourselves fired.”

“I called in earlier and told them what happened. I think we’re in the clear, but we should be careful the next few months.”

“Wait,” Christophe replied, once he heard the sound of pants zipping up and he turned back around, “You _told_ everyone?”

Gregory fixed him with an eyeroll, adjusting his belt buckle. “I told Rebecca. That was it. And she’s not going to go blabbing about that to anybody.”

“That you know of,” Christophe replied, his fingers itching at his sides.

“Don’t be dramatic.” Gregory fixed him with a look of irritation. “And what would it matter if everyone knew? We were drugged and then humiliated. What agent hasn’t had a similar experience?”

“Oh, so being wed to me is humiliating to you?”

“What?” Gregory exclaimed, looking at him in confusion. “I didn’t say that!”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Christophe replied, crossing his arms.

“Wait a minute, you were just upset because I told someone what happened and now you’re offended that I’m not happy about this?!”

“Non, that’s not what I—” Christophe turned his back on him with a harsh growl. “Nevermind.”

“No, not ‘nevermind’,” Gregory shot back. “Make yourself clear.”

“We have more important things to do,” Christophe hissed, moving to get his boots on.

“And we’re not going to do them if you’re going to be all shifty with me.”

“We’re secret agents, you dumbfuck. We’re always shifty.”

Gregory’s eyes widened at the insult before they narrowed, suddenly dark. “You’re really starting to piss me off, Chris.”

“Good, that makes two of us.” Christophe stood up again, not caring that his boots weren’t laced up effectively. His hand dropped onto the doorknob, just barely having a chance to turn it when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Christophe, talk to me,” Gregory said, his tone softer than Christophe expected. “You know just as well as I do that we can’t work together if we’re fighting. Please.”

Christophe’s grip slackened. “…this whole situation is stupid.”

“It is,” Gregory agreed. “But we have to deal with it somehow.” He gently pulled Christophe back to look at him, his blue eyes filled with concern. “What’s wrong? Did I say something bad?”

“You didn’t—I just—” Christophe glanced down at his boots, making a face at just how untied the left one looked.

Gregory observed him curiously, biting his inner lip. “Chris—”

“I am sorry,” Christophe stated firmly. “I’m being a bitch. I have a hangover and I did not expect to wake up to this bullshit.” He looked back up at Gregory. “I’m upset and taking it out on you. And that is not fair.”

Gregory nodded gently. “It’s not.” Then, he smiled. “But I forgive you.” He patted one of Christophe’s cheeks affectionately. “Don’t shut me out, alright? Let’s get this mess straightened out and then we can go home.”

Christophe’s cheeks heated up on instinct at the touch, letting out a huff and clearing his throat. “Agreed.”

**Author's Note:**

> The 'we accidentally got married in Las Vegas' au that nobody asked for.


End file.
